


Cut It Out And Then Restart

by suchfun



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Reporters, Alternate Universe - The Newsroom, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Getting Back Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-04-30 10:24:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5160290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchfun/pseuds/suchfun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years ago, when they were first starting out both in their relationship and their careers, when they were babies and hardly understood their car insurance let alone the multi-billion dollar, all-consuming, world-encompassing, life-altering business of news reporting—back then, Derek would practice his expressions in the mirror, and Stiles would think, <i>I'm so glad he'll never have to use that face with me</i>.</p>
<p>And then Stiles screwed up, and he's seen nothing but that face for the past two years. Aesthetically, it's still an awesome face, and it probably always will be, but Derek is so much more than another hot dude. And he always will be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cut It Out And Then Restart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stilinskiandthewolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilinskiandthewolf/gifts).



> Based on the HBO television show The Newsroom, but this is by no means a copy+paste. I hijacked some character and plot elements and twisted them to suit my needs. It should also be understandable without any prior knowledge of the program.
> 
> Due to the fact that this fic is set in a television news reporting environment, there are references to some topics that may be sensitive, but the only one that gets any more than a mere mention is gun control. Some characters may also be cavalier about important issues, but these attitudes are not my own. There is an instance of recreational drug use, but as it's nowhere near explicit only relevant retroactively within the story I haven't tagged it. Please let me know if I've missed anything in the warnings/tags!
> 
> Thanks to B for the support. Title (and another line in there somewhere) from Florence + The Machine's Shake It Out. It came on while I was writing and it was perfect. Hope you like it, stilinskiandthewolf!

_July_

"I've got a bad feeling about this," Stiles says. He's staring out into the newsroom through the glass wall of his dad's office, chewing on his tie. He can see across the whole floor from here, from the mass of desks grouped in the middle of the room where all of the staffers are busily working at their computers, through to the studio on the other end of the room. He can see through the plexiglass into the studio itself, where someone's filming something, but all he registers is that it isn't Derek. Stiles would know the back of Derek's head anywhere.

"Stop that, it's disgusting," his dad says, interrupting his brooding, grabbing the tie and yanking it out of Stiles' mouth as he shuffles past to his desk, only half choking Stiles in the process. "And stop being so dramatic. Derek is a professional, he knows how this world works. He'll understand."

"Yeah, he understands how to kill me! Remember how we were there when he got his first degree black belt? Who knows how many degrees he has now? He hates me, Dad," he reminds him, turning to his dad, smoothing his wet (ugh, that really is gross) tie down under his vest. "He hates me so much he wouldn't even look at me, let alone glare at me. He fucking loves glaring at people. I shouldn't be here."

"Stiles," his dad says, easing back in his seat, "I'm the president of this news channel. I hired you because you are an excellent executive producer. You know who else is excellent at their job? Derek Hale. He will understand that it's for the good of the show and you two will learn to work together again, like any team that is the best ever does. Okay?"

"I don't think—" Stiles starts, but then the door his dad's office slams open, and Derek himself stomps inside, eyes locked on Stiles.

Stiles' heart is in his throat, feeling like any minute now he's going to puke it up, because finally, after two years and four months and three weeks, Derek Hale is looking directly at him.

Stiles can't help but step closer. "Derek—"

And Derek punches him in the face.

Stiles reels backwards, clutching his jaw, and his dad jumps up but Stiles holds out a hand to stop him, straightening up and wiping his bloody lip with his tie.

Yeah, the tie is really dead now.

"Got that out of your system?" Stiles asks sharply.

"Don't you fucking dare," Derek spits. He turns to Stiles' dad. "I'm sorry that had to happen here, sir," he says. And then he leaves.

Stiles watches him go, watches him rampage through the newsroom, yelling at anyone who gets in his way and even some who don't. He turns back to his dad. "He'll understand, huh?" he lisps.

His dad shrugs. "I didn't say it would be right away."

 

_August_

"I'm not reading this shit," Derek says scathingly, tossing a file on Stiles' desk.

Stiles sighs and drops his burger back into the take out bag. He hasn't had a chance to touch his curly fries yet. He should've known that the ten minutes of free time he thought he'd found were merely an illusion. "What now?"

"'What now'? You say that like I'm being unreasonable, like at any point in the past month _I've_ been the one to blame for the shitty atmosphere, shitty ratings and shitty stories we've all been subjected to. That has nothing to do with me, that is all on you. And this," he jabs a finger accusingly at the files, "this is Scott. I thought you brought him with you because he's good at his job."

"He is," Stiles says. It's really really really hard not to be baited by Derek, not to fall back into old patterns, not to defend his best friend's honour, but he reminds himself that's what Derek wants. Derek just wants someone to blame, someone tangible to yell at who can't yell back like Stiles can. Scott is an excellent senior producer, Derek likes Scott, almost everyone does. (Except maybe Allison, but that's because 'like' is more like 'love but I'm going out with Jackson so I feel guilty even though Jackson's a douche and Scott is obviously my soulmate'. Yeah, that way madness lies, and Stiles has no intention of getting in the middle of it.) "Which story is this, the Sudanese freedom fighters or the LGBTQA+ protesters in Russia?"

Derek stills, locks his gaze very seriously on Stiles' (only the second time that's happened since they started working together again, is this progress?), and says, very carefully, "The. Selfie stick. Story."

Stiles just barely stops himself from cracking up. "Oh right yeah, sorry man but that has nothing to do with Scott, that was Peter, one hundred percent."

"Peter." Derek looks sick all of a sudden, probably because he knows that now there's no chance they'll be able to get out of running a two-minute story in the c-block dedicated to the newest craze amongst what is arguably the most narcissistic generation of all time. (Hell, Peter Hale, aka the CEO of this news network, aka everyone's boss and Derek's uncle, aka the most self-absorbed egomaniac Stiles has ever met—which is an amazing accolade to award anyone when you work in the news—probably feels like he's finally met his real people.) "Why," Derek breathes. "Why would he do this? Will the torture ever end?"

Stiles shrugs. "Part of a push to connect with younger viewers? I got nothing man, I already went toe to toe with him on this. He's pretty determined. I had to shave down Senator Harris' sex scandal footage, and you know how much Peter loves sex scandals. That's how into this idea he is."

"We'll see," Derek says mutinously, heading for the door, "we'll see how he feels when I've got my fist embedded in his—"

"He wants to make it a weekly thing," Stiles interrupts him, then cringes. He'd been trying to think of ways to break it gently all week, because he knows how much this is going to chip slowly and methodically away at what's left of Derek's soul, but he hopes that Derek still appreciates directness when it comes to important issues. Surely that hasn't changed, right? "A trend report. I tried to talk to him about maybe getting Lydia or Parrish to do it, I promise, but he wants it in our prime time slot." Derek slumps, falling into the chair closest to the exit, and Stiles peers around his computer monitor to keep him in sight. "Sorry dude, I really did try," he says softly.

Derek nods. "Okay." He finally looks at Stiles again, and for the first time possibly ever, Stiles can't tell what he's thinking. Even his eyebrows remain stubbornly and frighteningly fixed, until he suddenly launches himself up, mutters, "Thanks," and disappears out of Stiles' office, slamming the door behind him.

"Awesome," Stiles says, giving his still vibrating door two thumbs up, and then collapsing back in his seat. This is such a fucking nightmare. Fuck Peter Hale, fuck his money, and fuck his terrible ideas about how to run a television station.

Stiles reaches for his food. He's still got a few minutes left, that's more than enough time to get in a few—

"Stiles, I need to talk to you right now about my slot," Lydia demands, barging in, her hands immediately relocating to her hips. "I have a PhD from Berkeley and a doctorate from Duke, I've been studying economics for the past ten years and I've been the senior financial reporter for this broadcast for the past three. I understand you're new here, but when have I ever given any indication that I might be interested in doing a segment on," she checks something on her phone, "'One Direction vs The Beatles: Who Had Better Hair?'!?"

Stiles sighs.

Fucking Peter.

-

He donates his burger to Scott.

 

_September_

Stiles has never really bothered to stop and look at Derek's framed News Night posters. They're everywhere, on at least three floors, and the first thing you see when you enter the building. Each one is only slightly different, tiny variations on a pose. His chin is tipped up in the one on the ground floor and tilted down in the one just outside his dad's office, but this one, the one in the hall of the News Night floor, the one Stiles has to pass by every time he wants to use the elevator or the bathroom or the break room, this is the most affecting one. It's bigger than the others, at least as tall as Stiles and perched high up on the wall, overlooking the entire newsroom. Derek is front on, looking directly down the lens, vivid eyes penetrating, almost so intense that you feel like you _have_ to look away, look down at the NEWS NIGHT WITH DEREK HALE caption at the bottom of the poster. He seems so self-assured in this photo, so confident. It's his 'on air' expression, the face he turns on for broadcasts, for interviews and fans and cameras. 

It's also so far from the truth it's almost hilarious.

Years ago, when they were first starting out both in their relationship and their careers, when they were babies and hardly understood their car insurance let alone the multi-billion dollar, all-consuming, world-encompassing, life-altering business of news reporting—back then, Derek would practice his expressions in the mirror, and Stiles would think, _I'm so glad he'll never have to use that face with me_.

And then Stiles screwed up, and he's seen nothing but that face for the past two years. Aesthetically, it's still an awesome face, and it probably always will be, but Derek is so much more than another hot dude. And he always will be.

Sighing and rubbing down his face with a palm, Stiles finally looks away from the poster—

—and jumps, flailing, when he realises someone is standing behind him, way too close—

But it's just Derek, being a creeper, as he is wont to do. Stiles recovers quickly.

"What the hell man?" he asks.

Derek responds with his own question. "Where were you today? You missed an important meeting." 

"I know. I cleared it with my dad, it's fine. That's why I'm here now, working late to catch up." He gestures to himself, then in the direction of his office and tries to take a step towards it but Derek slides over and cuts him off.

"Were you at the doctor?"

"Why are you asking? I thought you didn't care about me."

"I don't," Derek says, too quickly. "I heard… You." He stops, looking frustrated. He grits his teeth, takes a moment, and then seems to decide to plunge right on in, embracing the grudging concern shtick he's got going on. "I heard you talking to Scott last week about genetic testing. For frontotemporal dementia."

Stiles blinks. "Uh, yeah. We did have that conversation." He's been keeping track of the latest developments in genetic testing for years now, probably ever since he and Derek met for the first time, back in college. At that point it hadn't been a viable option for him, and it still isn't, since the testing requires a sample from the family member with the disease and his mom's been dead for twenty years now. But science is science, and new things are happening every day. Stiles is just shocked that Derek remembers, and is admitting that he cares. "But dude, that's not where I was today. It was just at a dentist appointment."

"So I guess you're fine, then."

"As far as I know, yeah," Stiles says softly. He tries to catch Derek's eye, but Derek's busy clenching his jaw and avoiding his gaze right now, and Stiles lets him. "Aaaanywaaaay, how was the meeting?"

Derek pulls a face. "Peter is a terrible person and I have no idea how he ever got his job."

Stiles considers this. "I think he just had a lot of money and decided it would be fun to run a television station."

"Yeah, my parents' money," Derek says darkly, then shakes his head. "Come on. While we're both here, I'll talk you through the meeting."

"It's okay, I can just look at the minutes," Stiles objects. Everyone knows Peter never keeps minutes, but he's hoping Derek goes along with it

"You're an idiot. Everyone knows Peter never keeps minutes. Hurry up." And he strides around the corner, out of Stiles' line of sight.

Stiles takes a deep, steadying breath and follows. The closer he gets to the conference room he more he can see of the whiteboard (because the walls are glass, why are all the walls glass, why is there so much glass? He's still not used to it), and the more horrified he is by the list of items written on there in Peter's terrible handwriting.

"September 11: The Musical? Saddest story contest? _Re-enactments_? Derek, please tell me this isn't real," he asks, feeling the first stirrings of panic flutter in his chest. This is going to be nightmare, if Peter ever wanted to sabotage Derek's show then this would be the perfect way to do it—not that Derek isn't capable of doing that himself. It must run in the family.

"Your dad managed to talk him out of most of it," Derek says, and Stiles relaxes, sending up a silent prayer of thanks for his dad. "Although they both agreed that Jordan should anchor the show that night, and not me." He sounds bitter now, but he's always been a little sour towards Jordan. Probably because he anchors the program directly after Derek's, he's thirty years old, just like Derek, and he's handsome, just like Derek, but he's way, way nicer. And some people really, really like nice.

Some people. There's no accounting for taste.

"He's ex-military," Derek continues. "Peter thinks it'll seem more sensitive and respectful." He seems very unconvinced. 

Stiles nods. "Plus, you did say you thought someone should blow up Trump Tower in the broadcast last year."

Derek frowns. "How do you know that?"

"I watched it. I've watched you whenever I could."

"And you called me creepy," Derek mutters.

"Derek," Stiles says, feeling exasperated beyond his years, "I watched you, of course I did, I watch the news!"

Derek narrows his eyes. "There are hundreds of news stations."

And yeah, just like that, Stiles is caught. "I… like News Night's infographics the most," he mutters, but it's weak. He knows it is.

Derek says nothing for a long time. He says nothing, he does nothing, just stands there, inanimate, and Stiles waits, because he knows what this means.

They're finally going to talk about it. And Derek deserves to have his questions answered. So Stiles waits.

"Why did you come back?" As a first question, it's not very hard-hitting. Derek's going easy on him.

Stiles swallows down his guilt. He'll never get through this conversation if he doesn't keep a hold of his emotions. "I told you, I thought you knew, I thought you agreed—"

"Why would I ever agree? I thought I'd never see you again. I _wished_ I'd never see you again. After three years together, you broke up with me, you barely explained why, you _left_ , and now you're back expecting everything to be fine! How could it be, Stiles? Explain to me how it could be!"

There it is. If Stiles was talking Derek through this interaction, if Derek was in the studio interviewing some expert witness and Stiles was talking him through it over his headset from the safety of the studio, he'd be encouraging Derek to go for the jugular right now. "I don't expect everything to be fine, Derek. I knew it wouldn't be. I don't expect things to just magically get better. I'm sorry for what I did. I'm sorry for leaving you, and for hurting you. I honestly thought I was doing the right thing. I thought we'd be better for it. I was a dumbass, and I'm sorry."

It's the most truthful Stiles has been in a long time. He was eighteen when he and Derek met for the first time, back in college. They'd interned together briefly at the local news station, and there had always been _something_ between them, but then Derek had graduated and moved away. Stiles had still had three more years of school, and they fell out of contact, and Stiles thought that was it.

And then they'd met again years later, a year after Stiles graduated, at a crappy news station in Boston. And they'd worked together so well. And there'd still been that _something_. And they'd started dating, and they'd kept dating for three years, and Stiles was convinced that Derek was _it_.

But then Derek had received a job offer in New York, and Stiles hadn't, and Derek was going to turn it down. Turn down his dream job, for Stiles. And Stiles couldn't let him do it.

Who meets their soul mate when they're eighteen, anyway? Stiles' parents maybe, but then his mom died of a debilitating brain disease when Stiles was eight. Derek's parents maybe, but then they got shot when Derek was fifteen. Yeah, he'd loved Derek, and Derek had loved him. But at the time, it had felt like he had to be the one to make the sacrifice, like it would be better for Derek in the long run. No matter how miserable he'd been. No matter how miserable they both still are.

"I still care about you," Stiles says softly.

Derek's whole body tenses, his hands flexing into fists and then back out again, like he's barely keeping it together. "Well that's your cross to bear."

"I emailed you a couple times."

"I set your email to spam."

"I called."

"I blocked your number." He stops, looking even more frustrated, and adds, "I've unblocked it now because of work, which pissed me off so much I had to get Cora to do it, but that doesn't mean you can contact me for personal reasons."

"I get it, Derek. Strictly business."

"Good," he says gruffly. "I'm gonna go. Thanks for the extremely unhelpful conversation." He turns on his heel and strides out, and Stiles lets out a gusty sigh. 

He probably shouldn't do what he's about to do next. He literally _just_ promised Derek he wouldn't, but… 

Fuck it. Derek already knew he'd break the rules anyway. He always does.

He sends Derek a text.

_I really am sorry, Derek. Goodnight._

He gets no reply.

 

_October_

Stiles gets a phone call just as he's about to down his first shot. It's his dad's ringtone, and he always picks up for his dad, no matter what, so he passes his glass to the person next to him and pushes his way through Scott's crowded apartment. He doesn't know most of these people—there's a group over by the window singing kumbaya (where did they get the guitars? Did they bring them? Do they take them to every house party they attend? If not then what are the criteria and how did Scott's Halloween party meet them?) even though Scott's got Blink 182 playing over the stereo. They're all wearing Katy Perry costumes. Stiles goes the long way to Scott's bedroom just to avoid them.

Once he gets inside and closes the door it's slightly quieter, off-limits to anyone but Scott himself and Stiles, and Stiles flops back on Scott's bed and flicks his thumb across his touch screen. 

"Before you start complaining—" his dad says immediately, and Stiles makes a whining sound, because he knows what this means. This means Fun Time is over, and he didn't even manage to fit in one drunken grope. "How old are you again, kid?" his dad asks, still sounding urgent but also faintly amused. 

"Old enough that I should be inebriated, but I'm not." He sighs. "What's going on?" 

"Need you to get to the studio, stat. Word is there's going be an important address from the President in just over an hour."

Stiles bolts upright, smacking his elbow into Scott's bedside table but shaking it off. "What about? Are we thinking Syria? IS? Gun control? We got that tip from Araya about—" 

"We can speculate till we're blue in the face but we don't know anything, and we're not gonna say anything official about it until the President has spoken, is that clear? This is a facts-only report. I need you to bring Scott and whoever else that isn't totally drunk off their ass with you."

Stiles slowly looks down at his body. The gold material of his costume (what there is of it) glints in the low light. "Directly? From our… Halloween party? In… costume?" 

His dad hesitates. "Yes?" he says finally. "Is that… inadvisable?" 

"It might be, but you've seen it all before," Stiles says cheerily, jumping up and heading for Scott's closet. He'll just grab a jacket and that'll have to do. "We'll be in asap. Need me to call Derek?" Stiles cringes at the thought—Derek is probably sitting at home all alone right now. In fact, he's probably gone to bed already, which is such a shame, because Derek used to love Halloween. Not the dressing up part, although he'd done it with minimal grumbling when Stiles had asked, but the festivities. And he got really, crazy into the scaring people part. He used to outdo himself every year setting up his yard for trick or treaters, and every time he heard a scream he'd get this proud little smirk that Stiles couldn't help but kiss him for. 

But— "He's with me," his dad says, nonsensically, and Stiles stops dead, because why would— "we're just catching a cab from his place now. See you soon." 

"From his— what? Dad—what?" 

His dad has already hung up though, and Stiles is left staring at the screen of his phone long past the backlight going black. 

-

Stiles tries to corner Scott before they leave, to ask him if he knows anything about his dad and Derek, but as soon as Scott hears they need to get back to work he's looking for Allison. She barely has enough time to kiss a super-intoxicated Jackson goodbye and make sure he has a ride home from someone before Scott is gleefully pulling her away.

"What about your party?" Allison says, stumbling out the front door, pulling on her coat on and glancing inside one last time before Scott firmly pulls the door shut. 

"My room mate's still here," Scott says, shrugging. "It was more his party anyway." 

"Which one was he? Oh wait, the tall one with the perfect bone structure?"

Scott pauses. Stiles nearly punches himself in the face. He tries to herd Scott down the street but he's too busy pouting and asking Allison, "You liked his bone structure?" 

Alison tilts her head consideringly. "I guess? I mean, Jackson has great cheekbones too right?" 

"My dad said stat, guys, stat is serious boss-man talk for _hurry up_ ," Stiles tries, but he may as well not have spoken. Scott and Allison are always off in their own little world, so he shouldn't be surprised, but for some reason he thought important work things would take precedence? How naive he was. 

"Right," Scott says, looking down, literally scuffing his toe against the pavement, and honestly, what is it about attractive women that makes Scott de-age like twenty years? 

"But honestly it's not really about looks for me." Allison shrugs, and Scott's head snaps back up. "I mean it helps, but it's just a bonus. I value a personal connection much more than some cheekbones, don't you?" She nudges Scott's side. 

Scott grins back goofily, and that's how the whole cab ride goes—Allison and Scott awkwardly and carefully half-flirting, like they can't help it, and Stiles wanting to brain himself. He tries sending his dad a few texts ( _dad what did you mean about you and Derek_ ; _dad answer me or I'll get Danny to post that video of you doing the chicken dance at my birthday party on our official website (btw I still maintain that ten is way too old an age to be subjected to any kind of traumatising experience such as the chicken dance)_ ; _daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaasaaaaaaasazaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad_ ) but no one loves him and it feels like he's caught in the hellish car ride forever. 

Finally they pull up to the ACN building and Stiles launches himself out of the cab, practically before it's even stopped, and leaves Allison and Scott to pay the fare. It serves them right. Usually when he's third-wheeling at least it's with an actual couple, not some kind of fantasy pining will-they-or-won't-they situation Scott and Allison have going on. 

-

They've made it back to the office before his dad and Derek, which makes no sense because Derek is loaded and has an apartment way closer to the city centre than Scott, but Stiles doesn't bother wondering why. Instead he heads straight to the briefing room, hoping someone is around to fill him in.

Peter and Jordan both look up as he pushes open the glass door, and in a theatrical display of synchronicity, run their eyes down his body—his _costume_ —and turn to each other, then turn back to Stiles, and smirk.

"Well well well," Peter says. He himself is in a pretentious tuxedo, obviously having just come from some pretentious party. "You've been holding out on us, Stiles."

Stiles rolls his eyes, resisting the urge to pull Scott's jacket tighter around his torso. "You're an abomination," he says primly, sidling up to Jordan. "Now please change the subject and tell me what you know."

Unfortunately, it doesn't seem there's much _to_ know. They just regurgitate the same non-information his dad told him, despite the fact that Peter is his dad's boss and really should know more about what's going on. 

Fortunately, it doesn't take long for Stiles to hear an elevator ding, and he heads out to cut his dad off at the pass, but it's not his dad who shows up first, it's Lydia.

To her credit, she doesn't even blink at Stiles' costume, just rolls her eyes and sighs, "Oh Stiles," as she sweeps past him towards the studio.

"Mwah," Stiles calls, loudly blowing her an extravagant air kiss.

His dad finally rounds the corner a few seconds later, but he seems harried, his eyes glued to his phone.

"Dad—"

"Stiles, is Derek here?" he interrupts, craning his neck to see into the briefing room, scanning the rest of the newsroom behind that.

Stiles squints. "Isn't he with you?"

His dad sighs, rubbing his forehead. "He was, the three of us—"

"Wait, all three of you, together? You and Derek and Lydia?" Now that he's taking the time to look, his dad is wearing his best suit and a bowtie, and Lydia had been wearing some beautiful slinky thing. "Where were you, exactly?"

"We were at Derek's cocktail party," his dad says, but he's distracted again, staring at something on Stiles' chest. "Is that your mom's old deputy badge?"

Stiles' hand comes up to cradle it before he can stop it. It is, in fact, his mom's badge. He usually keeps it on his desk next to the picture of him meeting Terry Collins, but if anything has ever called for it for it to be worn again then it's the gold lamé deputy 'uniform' featuring short-shorts and popped collar that he's wearing right now.

Stiles, however, finds that line of questioning completely irrelevant when he has a line all of his own. A line that is much, much more important.

"Derek had a cocktail party?" he asks calmly. 

His dad looks caught, finally giving Stiles his full attention. "It was fancy. There was a violinist. You would have hated it."

"Okay." Stiles nods. It sounds like Derek would have hated it too, but he doesn't say anything about that. "And who else was there?"

"Guests," he says evasively. "Danny. And, uh…" He looks around, seeming almost desperate, before his gaze latches onto Peter and he points triumphantly. "Peter! Peter was there."

"The wine wasn't quite suited to the menu but the hors d'oeuvres were exquisite," Peter confirms. He's sauntering past while polishing his gold pocket watch on a pristine white handkerchief. Of course he is.

Stiles just can't— _Peter_ was even there? " _Peter_ was even there?"

Peter sniffs condescendingly. "I _am_ family."

"Only by blood," Stiles snaps, not calm anymore, and then turns back to his dad. "So, Derek had a party, invited half the office including my _dad_ , actively kept it a secret from the other half including _me_ , and now he hasn't showed up when we need him for an emergency broadcast? What the hell?"

"We got stuck in traffic and then he decided he could run here faster, which he was obviously wrong about, because now we're here and he's not," his dad says.

Stiles feels all his indignation and anger leave him in a rush. "He… ran," he repeats. 

He shrugs and moves towards the briefing room, calling back, "I know. And you know what, I decided not asking questions was the safest route."

Stiles thinks that that right there always been the main difference between Stiles and his Dad. Stiles will always ask, no matter the consequences. Thankfully, it's an exceptional characteristic to have as a reporter. 

It's also probably why he doesn't have many friends.

-

Derek arrives fourteen minutes before he's due to go on air. He's sweaty, his hair is Stiles-level unkempt, he's only got half a bow tie and he's holding a falafel, but there's no time to ask why and he gets swept directly into makeup. He's surprisingly loose, tonight. Stiles was sure he'd make a fuss about his dad's decision to have him co-anchor with Parrish but he didn't even seem to really comprehend what the instruction meant, just nodded and went along benignly with whatever everyone else said.

Parrish even says something that makes him laugh. Derek _laughs_. Derek _laughs_ and it's like watching magic happen, like watching a newborn foal find its legs and stagger upright for the first time, like watching a setting sun turn the sky a thousand shades of brilliant colour, like finally beating a hard level of Candy Crush on the thirtieth try and getting three stars. Stiles hasn't heard that laugh in over two years.

Stiles is really, really glad he wasn't already drunk when his dad called him.

 

_November_

"You were _high_?" Stiles shrieks.

"It was after the show, I'm allowed bodily autonomy as soon as I step out of the building," Derek retorts, but he looks uncomfortable, so Stiles knows that he knows he's in the wrong.

Or maybe he just looks like that because Stiles dragged him into the ladies' bathroom to have this conversation, but he'll have to suck it up. Stiles' office is too far away, and Stiles needs to yell at him _now_.

"I'm aware of that, but then you stepped _back into_ the building, and you were _high_!"

Derek falters for a moment, and he obviously knows Stiles won that point, but then he steps closer, backing Stiles into the wall. The hand dryer is digging into his spine but he refuses to complain, just returns Derek's glare. "You're the exec producer, why didn't you say anything?" he demands.

"Oh my god, how is this _my_ fault now?"

"I know you noticed something, you notice everything! Why did you let me go on air when you noticed something was different?"

Stiles feels like this is an alternate universe. If it isn't, then it definitely should be. "I thought you were just relaxed for once, how was I supposed to see you laugh and immediately think you were high? I haven't seen you laugh in years!"

"Yeah, well maybe that's because I haven't really laughed in years!" Derek yells, and immediately takes two steps back, obviously wishing he hadn't shared that. Derek always did reveal too much when he was upset.

Stiles clears his throat. "I didn't know that," he says carefully.

"I didn't want you to know that, Stiles. You don't get to know things about me anymore." He's aggravating mix of resigned and stubborn right now, and as usual, it means Stiles can't decide whether he wants to punch him in the tooth and kiss him on the forehead.

"Maybe as your boyfriend, yeah, I don't," he says insistently, "but as your producer I—"

"Sir?" Derek's new assistant Kira pushes the door open enough to poke her head into the room, smiling nervously at Stiles before directing her attention back to Derek. "We have a red news alert, Mr Stilinski wants you both out in thirty seconds, he says we're going live in twenty."

"Thanks Kira," Derek says, sparing her a grimace, and she ducks out again.

Stiles is immediately suspicious. Since when does Derek even acknowledge his assistants, let alone thank them? "Are you high right _now_?"

"For fuck's— I'm not an addict Stiles! I had a brownie at a party, at my own home, because I didn't think I had to work again for at least twelve hours, and I was celebrating Halloween with my frien— with my co-workers!"

Stiles sneers. "Yeah, one brownie, I'm sure, because it didn't take like ten brownies at that frat party for anything to have any effect on you."

"Stop it, I hate it when you do that, stop exaggerating everything I do, it makes me sound ridiculous!"

"You _are_ ridiculous! Derek, you went on air while you were under the influence of an illegal substance and now Theo Raeken, aka _the worst person_ —well, basically ever, but mostly the worst person to ever find out your secrets—knows! And he's threatening to publish the story in his gossip magazine! And you're blaming me!"

" _Guys_!" another voice yells from the door, interrupting the most crucial moment of their fight, and they both whip around, yelling, " _What_?!"

Scott rolls his eyes. "There are things happening in the world that don't involve you, and for some reason you guys are expected to do your jobs and, you know, report on them!" He waves a stack of papers in his hand, and his face turns serious. "There's been another plane crash."

"Shit," Stiles says, his brain switching tracks almost immediately. "Casualties?"

"Unknown, but definitely more than a few."

"Where?"

"Somewhere in Texas I think," he says. "But I haven't had the chance to review the info properly because I'm in here, disciplining you two! Figure it out and get out here," he says firmly, slipping out of the room again.

There's a few moments of silence before Stiles rubs the back of neck, sighing. This whole thing with Derek is stupid, it's just so _stupid_ , so all-consuming. They get so caught in up in each other's orbits, no matter how much time has passed, or how much resentment has built, and they slip back into old habits so easily it's almost scary. It's definitely unhealthy. 

Sometimes the only thing he regrets more than leaving Derek in the first place is coming back. 

"I'll figure out what to do about Theo," he says quietly, letting his arm drop. Nervous tics are too exhausting right now. "You go get ready, I'll be out in a minute." 

Derek stomps to the door, but he pauses there instead of storming out after Scott. 

"What," Stiles asks dully.

"Sorry," Derek says. 

Stiles raises his eyebrows, but somehow manages to bite back a retort. He nods and Derek leaves, and Stiles remembers that this was always part of their pattern, too. They always figured it out. There was always a solution.

Maybe there still is.

 

_December_

Stiles is blowing up his twentieth balloon with the tank, the novelty of sucking in the helium to make his voice all high and squeaky long worn off, when it occurs to him to ask why he and Scott are the only ones still still doing this.

"Dude," he says, dropping the balloon, letting it fly around the briefing room with a pathetic whine until it finally drops to the floor at Scott's feet. "Why are we the only ones doing this? Where did everyone go?"

Scott, who's admittedly been staring into space for a while and is not actually attaching strings to the balloons in a very timely fashion, blinks and turns to Stiles. "What?"

Stiles squints. "Are you thinking about Allison or Erica right now?"

Scott turns away, making himself busy with the roll of string, and Stiles throws the mostly-empty packet of balloons at him. "Scott! Erica is gonna be here in half an hour! She's your date tonight, remember, the hot blonde? Remember, because Allison is dating Jackson and has been for like two years, remember?"

"I know, okay?" Scott snaps. "And it's only been twenty months, so get your facts straight."

"Ugh." Stiles tries not to let the full level of his disgust seep into his tone. "It's pathetic that you know that."

"Yeah, okay, Mr I Can Tell You Exactly How Long It's Been Since I Last Kissed Derek."

Stiles cringes. He'd hoped Scott had forgotten about that. But it's not _Stiles'_ fault that it had been May 16th aka National Sea Monkey Day, aka a date that's super important and easy to remember. "Okay, touché, but seriously dude, just." Stiles physically turns Scott towards him, makes him look him in the eye. Sometimes, Scott is impossible to talk to, to really communicate the seriousness of certain issues to, unless there's manhandling involved. "Allison has a boyfriend. I know you love her, but she has a boyfriend, and we all work with him. It sucks, but she set you up with her roommate, dude. You should probably respect her—both of them, both Allison and Erica. Don't be a dick. It's too easy to be a dick in situations like this, believe me, I'm well-versed in it."

Scott holds his gaze for a moment, stubborn, but then he slumps and Stiles knows he's finally got through to him. "I hate everything," Scott says petulantly, kicking at a chair. "But I hate balloons the most."

Stiles slaps Scott on the shoulder encouragingly. "Right there with you, buddy. Happy New Year's Eve."

-

"You guys did a terrible job with the decorations," Lydia says idly, drink in one hand and strand of hair in the other. For some reason she moves closer, propping herself on the edge of the desk next to Stiles in the corner, where he's watching the 'festivities' from a safe distance. 

The party is probably in the fullest swing it's ever going achieve, which isn't that great to be honest, but nobody seems to care. There's drinks and food and conversation and laughter, there's balloons, no one's had a public breakdown and nothing disastrous has happened in the world that requires a national broadcast, so in Stiles' mind it's pretty much a one hundred percent hit.

"I know right," he says cheerfully. "My favourite parts were when all the balloons immediately wedged themselves in the highest part of the ceiling and probably caused a fire hazard, and how we only just managed to turn off all the flashing lights before Erica came in, because Scott somehow forgot she has epilepsy." Which was kind of a bummer because Stiles was kind of hoping that the low lighting would disguise his shitty decorating job, but hiding the seven clumps of streamers probably wasn't worth threatening someone's life. Probably.

"Speaking of," Lydia murmurs, nodding her head subtly to their left where Scott and Erica are awkwardly conversing at Scott's desk. At his _desk_ , because Scott got so desperate for conversation topics that he tried to strike up a discussion about—well, Stiles isn't sure exactly, but he thinks Scott is working on something involving the Republican economic policy. "That's just sad," she says, sounding only vaguely sympathetic.

Stiles can't even deny it in the name of standing up for his bro. "I know. I'm not sure what he's trying to do but— _oh my god_ , he's trying to give her a _pencil_. Scott, no, _why_?" Stiles watches with rising secondhand embarrassment as Erica just stares at the proffered pencil. What is Scott _doing_? "Oh my god, I can't watch this, it's too painful, it's too emotionally damaging." He spins around to face the wall, but he wants to know what's _happening_. "Lydia—"

"He's still holding the pencil, she's staring at him like he's a freak, because he is," Lydia narrates boredly. "He's saying something, she's rolling her eyes, he looks like someone told him Santa isn't real—"

Stiles cringes. That look is _brutal_ , Erica must be super tough if she can stay strong in the face of that look.

"—she's shoving the pencil back at him—seriously, what's with the pencil?"

"Uhh..." Stiles shifts uncomfortably. Honestly, he's surprised that Allison never told Lydia the Scott/Allison origin story, but he still feels like saying anything is disloyal to Scott, somehow. This is Lydia, though, and she's warmed enough to both Stiles and Scott now for Stiles to know that they're friends. And also for Stiles to know that he doesn't tell her what she wants to know, retribution will be swift. He sighs. "It's how he got Allison's attention, our first day here," he admits. "She needed a pencil. He loaned her his pencil."

"Oh my god," Lydia says. "I need another drink."

She leaves, and Stiles waits another few seconds before slowly, cautiously turning around. Thankfully, someone seems to have—wait, that's Derek. _Derek_ seems to have taken pity on Scott and and is introducing himself to Erica, then pulling his gigantic, stoic, beautiful bodyguard from behind himself to introduce him as well. Boyd offers a quick smile and shakes Erica's hand, but he's way too professional to notice the way she's eyeing him up, stepping away from Scott and closer to Boyd like she can't help it, like she's drawn to him.

"Damn it," Stiles mutters, but Scott doesn't seem too bothered about losing Erica's company. He barely notices, too busy with something his computer.

"I told Jackson they're not each other's type," someone says, and Stiles looks up to see Allison hovering a few feet away, eyes on Scott. "But he wouldn't listen. He said Erica is everyone's type so that would cancel it out." She turns to Stiles, smiles lopsidedly and takes the place Lydia vacated.

"So, you didn't set them up?" Stiles asks, surprised. 

Scott can never know. At this point, anything will stoke his ever-burning fire of hope dedicated to Allison Argent. It's better this way.

Allison snorts. "I don't really like Erica, I just can't afford my apartment alone. I'd never set her up with someone, especially not Scott."

Stiles stares at her. This is... really interesting actually, a revelation. For some reason he'd never thought of Allison as someone who could have a nemesis, and the fact that she does only makes him like her more.

"It's okay," she assures him, "Erica hates me too. We try to avoid each other as much as possible. Jackson was just feeling especially obnoxious and insisted on setting her up."

That piece of information, on the other hand, is not surprising. Jackson is an asshole but he's not stupid, and Scott and Allison have never been subtle. Stiles wonders if he should say something to her about Scott, about whatever it is that's going on between them. Is it a more bro thing to say something, or to keep his mouth shut? If he says something stupid, he might end up needing a bodyguard like Derek (although if Allison was the one after him, he wouldn't just be receiving death threats. Allison would follow through). But if he doesn't say anything, then Scott is likely to remain languishing in misery and heartache for all eternity, which means...

Stiles rubs his forehead. How does Scott always get him into these things? He glances back at Allison, where she's scrolling through what looks like Twitter on her phone, and starts to say—

But he's completely derailed when she breathes in sharply, in a way that almost sounds painful. Her mouth drops open and her brow creases in what Stiles thinks is hurt, but it cycles quickly through to anger.

"That little—" Allison looks up, casts around the room, and her gaze narrows in on a group of people chatting next to the unused strobe light. 

Before Stiles knows it, she's marching over to them, and Scott is immediately alert, brushing past Erica to go after Allison. Stiles himself follows more sedately, making certain to skirt around Derek. He reaches the group in time to find Allison shoving Matt against the wall with one hand, shaking her phone in his face with the other.

"—you think you were doing?" Allison is demanding furiously, shoving him again. "You're a disgusting human being!"

Matt smirks, infuriatingly cocky even though everyone knows Allison could have him on his ass in a second, if that was what she really wanted. Stiles makes it to Allison's side and glares at him—he never trusted this dude. He's got a super shady vibe, and Stiles has been sort of been keeping secret tabs on him, but obviously he's found some way to cross a line anyway.

"Oh Allison," Matt says nastily, "you really shouldn't resort to violence, it's very unladylike."

Allison's fist closes around her phone and her arm rears back, like she's going to punch Matt in the face, and while Stiles usually wouldn't stop her he feels like Scott is making a wise decision when he grabs Allison's wrist and gently draws her back, away from Matt. By now they've attracted a large crowd of spectators, and Derek is pushing past Stiles to insert himself between Allison and Matt, Boyd right behind him.

"What's going on?" Derek barks. "Explain. Now."

One word sentences. They always work so well for Derek, perfectly intimidating and concise, and Stiles has always been jealous.

" _Matt_ has apparently been live-tweeting the party on the official ACN account. Including very important updates featuring the rankings of hotness of the women in this office, and predictions about their underwear."

Allison shoves her phone at Derek, and now Stiles is the one who has to restrain someone as Scott launches himself at Matt, assumingly to beat at him with his ineffectual fists.

"Seriously, dude, it's not worth it," Stiles says lowly, and Scott stops struggling, wrenches himself out of Stiles' hands to put an arm around Allison. She spares him a glance but otherwise doesn't tear her eyes from Derek, who's slowly running his thumb down the screen of her phone.

"Mr Daehler," Derek says finally, "you're fired. Not only that, but I'm reporting this incident to the police."

"What?" Matt shrieks, although Stiles has to wonder how he thought this would end any differently. "I was only joking around, it didn't mean anything! It's not like half the office hasn't seen it all anyw—"

Okay, _that's_ it. Stiles can't help it—he steps in, slapping a hand, _hard_ , over Matt's mouth. "I'd shut up if I were you," he warns, again wishing he could sound half as threatening as Derek. "Or I will make this much, _much_ more difficult for you. Get the fuck out, and don't come back. Your personal effects will be mailed to you." He holds Matt's gaze for a few seconds before stepping back and nodding to Derek, who inclines his head and suddenly Boyd is grabbing Matt's bicep and practically lifting him off the ground as he drags him away.

"Danny!" Stiles calls.

"On it," Danny says, already at his desk, putting his mad IT skills to work, fixing everything—at least until the morning, when the inevitable backlash lands at their doorstep.

Twitter is simultaneously the best and the worst of creations.

When Stiles turns back to the crowd, Scott is carefully leading Allison away and Derek is bullying everyone else into getting back to the party, literally yelling, "Get back to having fun at the party! Now!"

"Well," Stiles says, after everyone has dispersed. "Thank god you've got people threatening to kill you. That was much easier with Boyd backing you up. Doubly scary."

Derek snorts. There's a pause before he says, "You backed me up, too."

"Always," Stiles says reflexively, before he can stop himself, and he regrets it immediately, because that's not true, and that's the problem.

Derek, though, for the first time since Stiles came to work with him, doesn't seem offended. "Maybe," he responds, and even looks like he might be drifting closer to Stiles... but then Boyd is back and leaning in to whisper in Derek's ear, and Derek is looking away, and Stiles lets it go. He puts it down to adrenaline and goes to check on Allison.

-

An hour later, Scott has taken Erica home (but not before she got Boyd's number), Jackson has reappeared from wherever he was when the drama happened (because he is a useless human being) and has seemed to have cheered up Allison (because uselessness aside, he does actually seem to like Allison, which is half of Scott's problem), it's 11:59:50pm and Danny is leading the countdown to midnight.

Stiles looks out over the newsroom, at the excited faces of the people he knows and cares about, and somehow finds himself locking eyes with Derek.

They hold others gaze, right down to the count of one, to the New York clock on the wall hitting midnight, to everyone around them screaming and erupting into cheers and kisses, and Stiles tries desperately not to give in to his inner Scott and read anything into it.

Not in public, anyway.

 

_January_

"—so you're telling me that in your 'professional' opinion—"

"Derek," Stiles says warningly, watching Derek grit his teeth through a monitor in the control room, the feed from the studio capturing every beautiful detail of Derek's clenched jaw. Derek's handling this interview atrociously, just like Stiles knew he would, but he'd insisted on taking it, just like Stiles had known he would. And now Stiles has to deal with the fallout. He adjusts his headset, pushing the mic closer to his mouth, so there's no way Derek can miss his tone through his tiny earpiece. "Everyone and their pet snake could hear your quotation marks, take it down a notch."

Derek visibly attempts to calm himself, rearranging his Defcon One eyebrows into a more placid expression, and continues, "So, Ms Argent, it is your… professional opinion that guns aren't the problem. Mental illness is the problem."

Kate Argent inclines her head in a nod, somehow both coolly pleasant and condescending at once. She's legitimately alarming, this woman who is a high-ranking member of one of New York's gun rights advocacy groups, because Stiles is pretty sure he's seen that crazed look in her eye before—on the front page of the local newspaper, in the picture of the murderer his mom arrested when she was a deputy back in California, when Stiles was a kid. "Of course," Kate says. "They're very sick people. They're mentally unbalanced."

_Dude_ , Stiles wants to say, childishly, _are you sure you aren't referring to yourself?_

Derek grits his teeth. "And it's also your opinion that—"

"It's not an opinion, it's a fact."

"I'm sorry, but I think you'll find that the actual facts are exactly the opposite. The vast majority of mentally ill people are non-violent, and far more likely to be the victims of violence, rather than the perpetrators."

Kate barely manages to rein in her annoyance. "Regardless, this is about self-defence. Our Founding Fathers knew, and our Supreme Court has upheld, that the Second Amendment's purpose is to guarantee our right to defend ourselves and our families." She smiles nastily. "Perhaps if past victims of 'gun violence' had taken better responsibility of themselves and their families, then we'd be seeing better outcomes today."

Derek bristles even further, understandably so considering the direct hit at his family, and Stiles feels his Derek-senses tingling. "Well, thank you for that unprofessional, uninformed bombardment of propaganda, Ms Argent."

"Derek—" Stiles starts, but Derek ignores him. 

He turns from Kate to face the camera, addressing it directly. "So, now we know that no matter how many children die, it's fine as long as it's in the name of retaining our right to kill _more_ people _just in case_."

"Derek!" Stiles yells. 

"Meanwhile, the President addressed an apparently indifferent nation about the latest tragedy, what is the _three hundred and forty second_ mass shooting in almost as many days, and we're crossing to that now. This has been Derek Hale for News Night, good night."

And with that, Derek stands up and storms out of the room before Stiles can even give the instruction to do the cross, so all of their viewers get to witness Derek brushing past Kate Argent almost violently and storming out of the studio. 

"Fuck," Stiles swears, scrambling to finish off their broadcast. Once he's sure everything is running smoothly with the rest of the studio team, he whips off his headset and chases after Derek through the newsroom. 

"Derek," he calls, and Derek's back tenses but he ignores Stiles, quickening his pace towards his office. " _Derek_!" 

Everyone's watching them now but Stiles doesn't care, because what he just witnessed was so far out of—

Allison appears, heading Derek off right as he reaches his office, planting herself between him and the door. 

Derek stops short. Stiles almost runs into him. Allison's eyes are shimmering but her jaw is set and her head is held high. 

Derek starts to shrink in on himself. 

"Derek," Allison says clearly, "I want to apologise for my aunt's behaviour." 

Stiles cringes. Now is such a bad time, he wishes there was a way he could tell Allison to drop it but he just can't—

"I know that after what happened to your parents it must have been really difficult to have that discussion," she continues, "and I just want you to know that my whole family doesn't think like that. I don't think like that." 

Oh wow, yeah, addressing the elephant, she definitely just found a way to make this whole thing worse, great job Allison.

But to Stiles' surprise, Derek doesn't react at all. He just nods at Allison, and then it's done, and she steps aside to let him into his office.

Stiles is stunned. He's actually… this is the calmest Derek has ever been about his parents. Is Allison magic? Did she spread her goodwill so far and wide that it somehow managed to permeate Derek's brain?

Shaking his head, Stiles offers her a small smile and then follows Derek, shutting the door behind him and closing the vertical blinds in attempt to give Derek some privacy.

When he turns back Derek is staring at the window with his arms crossed, defensive and nearly trembling.

So, not calm then. Just unwilling to give another Argent a reaction.

Stiles steps closer, careful, trying not to seem like he's treating Derek like he's a spooked animal but totally treating Derek like he's a spooked animal.

"Derek," he says softly.

Derek doesn't even twitch.

"Derek, I know… it's… she was baiting you, and related to Allison or not she probably deserves to chloroformed and tossed into a lake, but…" He pauses. "Derek, you know you can't lose it like that on air. If you'd just told me you weren't… we could have crossed early or something, just—"

"So why didn't you?" Derek snarls. "You could see I was losing it, what happened to having my back?"

"Hey, this isn't my fault either, you need to stop blaming me for these things dude. I offered to make someone else take the interview! This was _your_ idea, you said you'd be fine, I was trusting your judgement!"

"Yeah, and I _was_ fine!" He drops into his chair and slumps over his desk, sighing tiredly. "I thought I was. You know how it is, Stiles, you're fine until suddenly you're not," he says. He sounds miserable and exhausted. 

Stiles wishes he was allowed to be comforting, to touch Derek, to offer physical support. It always helped. Derek always liked it, even when he pretended he didn't.

Instead he dithers, trying to figure out how to respond, but before he can, Derek gets a text, mutters, "Your dad wants to see me," and stomps off.

"Argh," Stiles bites out, agitatedly rubbing his hands over his scalp. Sometimes he really fucking hates his job.

He shoves his way back out in the newsroom, wondering if he should look for Allison, when a kid with a timid smile approaches him.

"So, that was intense," the kid says, eyes wide with excitement.

A newbie, then.

Stiles frowns. "Who are you exactly?"

The kid waves awkwardly. "Hey, sorry, I'm Mason, your new IT guy."

Stiles does not compute. What is this kid talking about? "Wait, what happened to Danny? Wasn't he here like yesterday?" He glances over to Danny's desk, and yeah, it does look a little different? Like, he could have sworn there used to be a mini-poster of Matt Damon tacked to area behind the monitor. Now there's a collage of photos there instead.

"I… started here a week ago," Mason says slowly.

"Right," Stiles says hurriedly. So that meant Danny… Wow. That's actually pretty hurtful. Does that mean he just _left_? Did he have a goodbye party? Or was this yet _another_ party Stiles wasn't invited to? Just how many parties do people in this place have that he doesn't know about?

"So, yeah, anyway, I just wanted to introduce myself," Mason says. "And, uh, maybe… I wondered if I could talk to you about something actually, a story idea?"

Huh. Well, this is new. _Danny_ never offered up any story ideas. Maybe they're better off without him. They have Mason, now. They don't need Danny, and they never have.

Stiles nods. "Okay, sure kid. Shoot."

Mason's eyes go even bigger. "Really? I thought for sure you were gonna say no!"

"This is your time to shine rookie, what you got?"

"Okay, well, uh," Mason starts, excited, his hands coming up, like he's miming stretching out a slinky. "One word: werewolves."

-

"Seriously though," Stiles says, bursting into the break room where Scott is leaning against the counter, eating a huge sandwich and worriedly looking at his phone, "when did Danny leave? _Why_ did he leave? Did you know he was going to leave? Is he going to come back? Did he even say goodbye?"

Scott rolls his eyes and shoves his phone in his pocket. "Why do you care? Did you ever talk to him when he was here?"

Stiles considers. "I tried to bribe him once with half-naked pictures of Derek."

"Stiles!"

"Well he didn't take the bribe! Which means he was totally trustworthy. I don't trust this new kid."

"You don't trust anyone," Scott says dismissively, which is irritating, but Stiles lets it slide. He has much more important things to worry about now, and apparently so does Scott. Which he makes very clear when he asks, "Hey, have you seen Allison? She was really upset about her aunt. I hope she's okay."

"Dude. I am already dealing with one side of the fallout from that stupid interview, I have no time for anything else."

"She's not answering my texts, maybe she—"

"If she's upset she probably just wants some time alone. I doubt she's gonna be up for anything involving another human being—"

And then, as if she somehow knew what he was saying and felt it was her duty to personally prove him wrong, Allison bursts into the break room, her face streaked with tears.

"I went to find Jackson because I needed to vent," she says, voice wobbly. "But he was more worried about dodging my mom, who he's been avoiding meeting ever since we started dating, to bother talking to me. So I broke up with him."

Stiles and Scott stare at her. Scott opens his arms. Stiles edges away.

Allison practically throws herself into Scott's body, hugging him in a way that looks almost painful, but Stiles can't judge—he's been there before, many times. Scott gives good hug.

"Dude," Scott mouths, over Allison's shoulder.

"Dude," Stiles sighs.

-

Derek isn't in his office. He's not in the breakroom, or the bathroom, or the studio, and he's not still with Stiles' dad. But he hasn't left the building yet, either—his car's still in the parking lot and Stiles rang down to security to make sure. In a last ditch effort Stiles checks the roof, but he really should have known that Derek wouldn't be up there. It's practically snowing outside, and Derek hates the cold, because he hates layering his clothes. It's hard enough getting him into his suit jacket for broadcasts every day, when his preferred state of being involves jeans and henleys.

Still, it means Stiles is at somewhat of a loss as he waits for one of the elevators to take him back down to his floor, flipping his after-hours access card between his fingers. He has nowhere left to search, and he's just considering doing the unthinkable and trying to call Laura when the elevator on his right dings and the doors judder open to reveal Derek.

Stiles blinks. 

Derek frowns and reaches out a finger, probably to press the doors close button, but Stiles jumps in while he still has the chance. The doors barely miss clipping his shoulder.

"Thanks," he mutters. 

Derek ignores him, just stares blankly at the glowing panel of numbers above the doors as they cycle downwards. 

"Have you been in here this whole time?" No wonder there's been a build up of human traffic at the elevators. Derek's probably been glaring everyone into skipping his when it arrives and waiting for the next one. 

Derek shrugs. 

"Feel like coming out any time soon? So to speak?"

Derek shrugs.

"Did my dad kill you with an adequate amount of kindness?"

Derek shrugs again, but his face morphs from fully blank to only kind of blank when his eyebrows flick up in a tic that usually translates to 'I'm amused but I hate it and I hate you for causing it'.

Success.

Stiles pauses then, unsure about how Derek will respond to his next question, whether it will undo all the hard work he's already done, but because he's Stiles, he asks it anyway. It's hard being him, sometimes.

"Are you going to be alright tonight? Do you want me to call Laura?"

That makes Derek sigh. "Maybe if you want the verbal equivalent of having your throat ripped out with her teeth. She still hates you." He shifts a little, obviously uncomfortable, but adds, "She saw the show, she's already texted me about it."

"Did you at least reply? I know you don't like giving Laura the satisfaction of knowing that her mothering actually does make you feel better, but she worries, man. A lot."

"I know that," Derek snaps, finally sounding annoyed, which makes Stiles grin. Success indeed. "I sent her the skull emoji, it's fine."

Stiles tamps down on the disproportionate glee he experiences about Derek saying the word emoji and nods seriously. "Oh yeah, nothing says 'I'm totally fine and not at all traumatised' like a tiny bony face, an empty husk of a former man, stripped of its skin and soul."

"Oh, fuck you," Derek says, snorting. "I fucking hate that you still know how to cheer me up. It's not fucking fair."

"Not gonna lie, sometimes I hate that we know each other so well, too. But mostly that's just when you know I'm lying about not having a hangover." Stiles nudges him in the ribs with a gentle elbow, and Derek doesn't pull away, just… stands there. Lets their shoulders touch. They stand like that for a few moments, touching and not talking, before Derek finally pulls away, rubbing his shoulder.

"Okay," he says finally. "I'll stop trying to get Peter to fire you." He jabs their floor number firmly, decisively, and the elevator shudders and begins its upward descent. Stiles hadn't even noticed they'd gone past their floor and all the way down, but that's not important right now, because Derek… what? 

"You… what? You've been trying to get me fired?"

"Every week since you started here," Derek confirms, calmly. He's probably waiting for Stiles to get high-voiced and indignant, he loves making fun of him for that.

"Wow," Stiles says flatly, instead. "What an honour. I am truly hashtag-blessed."

Derek looks mildly disappointed that he didn't get the expected response, but he disguises it with a casual shrug. "You were the one who hashtag-left and hashtag-broke-my-heart and _then_ hashtag-came-back-randomly. What did you expect?"

And that's a very good point. Stiles brought this on himself really, and he can't look at Derek, guilt crushing him from all sides. But it's a feeling he's used to and something he's very good at covering for, so he just grumbles, "That's not how you use hashtags."

"Stiles, I don't care about hashtags! God, why am I so surprised you're missing the point, you're either missing something totally obvious or seeing some obscure connection no-one else ever will." Derek rolls his eyes up, like he's asking for help from the heavens. "I'm waving a white flag, here."

Stiles narrows his eyes, suspicious. It's not like Derek to give in. He never gives in, he's a see-our-fight-through-to-the-metaphorical-death kind of guy, and that's something Stiles has always admired about him. "Seriously?"

"It's easier this way, isn't it? Less stress, less arguments."

"Dude, arguing is pretty much the opposite of stressful for us." Foreplay, possibly. Entertaining, probably. Fascinating, definitely. But it's never been a negative element of their relationship, not even when they really meant it. "But okay, yeah. I'll take you up on that. Truce." He sticks his hand out to shake, remembering too late that it's a bad idea, because Stiles has always loved Derek's hands, and he's really missed them. He used to love holding them, hasn't been palm-to-palm with Derek in so long, and now, waiting with an extended arm he's not sure what to do with, he's kind of nervous. 

Derek steps closer, forces Stiles to look up at him properly, into his eyes, and reaches out.

They shake.

 

_February_

It takes Scott and Allison about three weeks to start dating. 

Stiles isn't exactly sure how healthy that is, considering Scott is technically Allison's boss and Allison only broke up with her long-term boyfriend less than a month ago and Jackson still works with all of them, but Stiles has no legs to stand on (or arms to gesture with—he's like that knight in Monty Python that ended up just a torso and head but was still yelling _come back and fight_ ) when it comes to relationships and their health, so other than advising Scott to be careful he keeps his mouth shut.

It seems civil enough between them all, at least. Much more civil than Derek and Stiles have been. Stiles is kind of shocked by how civil it is. It was hardly even awkward when they'd invited everyone but Jackson to their Valentine's Day dinner to celebrate their epic love (Scott's words, not Stiles', ugh). 

It _is_ awkward, however, when Stiles shows up at the restaurant two minutes late to see through the window that Derek is the only one at their table. 

Great. 

He hesitates outside. Maybe he shouldn't go in, should wait outside for someone else to go in with. His and Derek's relationship is getting better, they almost have the same repartee going as they did when they were together, but they haven't really graduated to 'friendly enough to wait together in restaurants without it being weird' yet. Or maybe—

But the choice is taken out of his hands when Derek glances up and sees him, offering a hesitant wave.

Awesome.

Stiles lets out a breath, waves back, and then goes inside, bypassing the maître d' to slide into the seat opposite Derek. 

"Hey man," he says, sliding off his gloves and wriggling out of his jacket. "Been here long?"

"Long enough to wonder if this was all just a big practical joke," Derek admits, pouring Stiles some Chinese tea.

Stiles nods his thanks and takes a sip, enjoying the warmth. "To be honest, I'm surprised you're here, you're usually an expert at avoiding social events. Did Scott catch you at a vulnerable time? Had you just finished watching YouTube videos about people rescuing dogs?"

Derek scowls. "Shut up, Stiles."

Stiles grins. "Chill, dude, I'm just teasing. I cried all through Lassie Come Home, remember? And that was fictional." 

Derek rolls his eyes and picks up the menu, and Stiles does the same even though he knows exactly what he wants because this is Scott's favourite restaurant and they come here all the time and he always orders the same thing. It's something to occupy his hands with.

They've been sitting in silence for a few minutes, Derek carefully reading the menu (and Stiles forgot about this element of going out with Derek—he reads every menu like it contains the directions to Red Rackham's treasure and takes a really long time to decide what he wants, even in restaurants he's been to before), when Stiles finally sees Scott and Allison crossing the road towards them.

Thank god. Three or four minutes is not a long time usually, passes before you realise it most of the time, but when you're stuck alone somewhere with your ex it feels like forever. 

Literally, forever.

When Scott appears again he's making a beeline for the table, dragging Allison behind him before pulling her in front him with a flourish.

"Guys, this is my girlfriend, Allison," Scott announces, presenting her to them.

Stiles looks at Derek. Derek looks at Stiles. They share what Stiles likes to think is a look that signifies just how gross they feel all of this is.

Stiles sighs. "Wow Allison so nice to finally meet you, Scott has told me so much about you," he says tonelessly, and Allison laughs and drops down next to him, kissing his cheek.

"Oh, cheek kisses, we do that now?" he asks, surprised.

She frowns. "What, too much?"

"No, no, you're Scott's girlfriend, it's impossible for it to be too much. I just gotta adjust to this new development," he says, glancing at Scott, who's beaming at them both.

It's kind of off-putting, to be honest. Stiles knows exactly what to do with an unhappy, pining friend. He has no idea how to handle this new, bright and shiny Scott.

"So," Derek says, pouring Scott and Allison tea as well, because he seems to have appointed himself That Person, "when's everyone else getting here?"

Scott tilts his head, looking confused. "Everyone else?"

"Oh, no-one else could make it, I hope that's okay?" Allison says. She slides off her beanie and puts in her purse, and Scott leans forward to smooth out her hair.

"Of course it is," Stiles forces himself to say, because what choice does he have, exactly? So he's on a kind-of double date with his ex-boyfriend who he still loves but who he screwed over and who only recently forgave(ish) him. So what? He can do this. He once had to take a job as a reporter on the press bus of a Republican presidential candidate and _not_ vomit every time he boarded the bus. If he managed to do that, he can do anything.

"Awesome dude, I'm starving," Scott says, snagging a menu to show Allison. He leans right over, pointing things out to her and giggling, and Stiles watches with twisted fascination for a while before forcing himself to look away.

Which means he looks at Derek. Derek's on his phone, shifting away from Scott a little, obviously hating the PDA occurring practically on top of him but trying not to ruin anything for Scott. 

It's kind of cute, in a terrible, almost-painful way, so Stiles pulls out his phone before he can overthink it, and sends Derek a text.

_Consider this message a warning that it's only going to get worse. I was stupid enough to eat lunch with them and nearly drowned in the deep affection_

Derek's phone must be on silent, because his text tone doesn't chime, but Stiles can tell the moment he reads it because he snorts and looks at Stiles with one eyebrow raised.

Stiles shrugs, grinning.

Next to Derek, Scott burns his lip on his tea, and Allison, overly-concerned, leans in to try and check it. Scott takes the opportunity to kiss her. Stiles hates them.

Derek types something and then looks back at Stiles expectantly. His message reads: 

_Consider this text message the socially acceptable equivalent of me smacking my forehead against the table over and over until I manage to achieve nirvana. Or death. Whichever comes first._

And Stiles can't help it—he laughs. He laughs, and then he looks at Derek, and Derek is smiling slightly, and man, he's missed this.

He's missed this so much, and he's going to enjoy having it again for as long as he can.

 

_March_

These days, Stiles infiltrates Derek's office for lunch more often than not. He says it's because Derek is closer to the break room than he is, not to mention Derek's coffee machine is better than his, and besides he usually has to talk business with Derek over lunch anyway, so it just makes sense.

In reality, everyone knows it's because of Derek—even Derek.

Stiles doesn't care.

Today Kira has joined them, and she and Derek are at his desk doing something involving colour-coding files that looks really boring, so Stiles leaves them to it and sits in the chair by the window to eat his leftover char kuey teow. It's kind of gross and slimy (Stiles isn't exactly sure how old it is, but it's definitely fine, maybe) but he's enjoying making really loud noises in the otherwise quiet room as he slurps up the noodles.

When Derek suddenly clears his throat, he knocks over his can of Coke but manages to catch it again using lacrosse skills he thought he'd never need again after high school, and looks up to see if either of them caught his majestic feat of brilliant sportsmanship, but of course it went unwitnessed. All the best things do. 

He grumpily settles back into his seat, waiting for Derek to continue.

"...do you think I'm likable enough?" Derek finally asks.

Stiles doesn't hesitate. It's more fun that way. "No."

"But, for audiences—"

"No."

Derek growls frustratedly. "Stiles, I'm not talking about the stupid platitudes and the aversion to bluntness that plague our society, I'm talking about my style, my news reading, what if I'm the reason the ratings are down—"

"Oh, you definitely are," Stiles affirms. He sucks up his last noodle, waggling his eyebrows at Derek over his chopsticks.

Derek looks like he wants to murder him.

It's fantastic.

It's fantastic because it's the playful 'Imma kill you' face, not the real one, and it's achingly familiar and really beautiful.

Stiles beams at him, but catches movement out of the corner of his eye, and Jackson pushes into the office, disrupting whatever awesomely witty comeback he was going to lob Derek's way.

"Hey, our translator is running late," Jackson says, "do you mind if we borrow Kira?"

"Why?" Derek asks.

Jackson rolls his eyes. "To _translate_? Jordan's China story?"

Stiles shakes his head, mock-sad because the only thing more fun than teasing Derek is goading Jackson, and turns to Kira. "Do you wanna be the one to tell him?"

Derek sighs. "Stiles—"

Stiles ignores him. "Jackson, I'm so sorry to have to be the one to break this to you, but Asia is not a country. Asia is a continent, made up of many countries, consisting of people who speak many different languages and dialects."

"So?"

"Kira, do you speak any form of Chinese?" he asks, not taking his eyes off Jackson.

"I can barely speak English," Kira admits.

No one says anything for a while.

Then Jackson says, "So—"

And Derek cuts him off with an authoritative, "Goodbye Jackson."

Jackson frowns, but leaves, which is a bit disappointing actually. Stiles didn't even get to flex his sarcasm muscle all that much.

Maybe Jackson's worried about a racism lawsuit or something. 

He turns back to Kira. "Side note—Kira, you probably shouldn't admit any prominent shortcomings directly in front of your bosses."

"Boss," Derek corrects him.

"I know you are, but what am I?" Stiles shoots back.

"Boss, Stiles. Singular. You are not Kira's boss. Kira, if he ever asks you to do anything, come to me first."

Stiles is affronted by this atrocious untruth. "Excuse me, I am _your_ boss, and you are _her_ boss, so technically—"

"You're not—"

"I'm your _exec producer_ , dude," Stiles reminds him, in case he somehow managed to forget.

"Okay then, for two hours a night, five nights a week, you have _some_ say over _some_ things that I do."

Stiles leers at him, putting his takeout container aside to walk over and lean against Derek's desk. "Just like old times, huh? Except back then there were a lot less clothes involved." 

Derek sighs. "Kira, just to be clear, Stiles is trying to embarrass me by referring to the period of time when we introduced elements of the BDSM lifestyle into our relationship. Was that clear enough for you?"

Kira nods, her face going so red she could rival Stiles' natural post-workout cheek blotchiness. "The clearest, there is absolutely no need to elaborate."

"Excellent." 

Derek goes back to his files, Kira goes back to hers, and Stiles huffs. The times when Derek doesn't choose to play along make it all the more clear how privileged Stiles feels when he does, which admittedly is more often than not these days.

He gets out his phone and thumbs to his messages, unwilling to let Derek win that easily. He and Derek have been messaging on and off since Valentine's Day, and their message history is satisfactorily long. (He is absolutely not pathetic and does not like to reread them sometimes. Before bed. When he wakes up. When he's bored on the toilet and can't get any reception to look up anything on the internet. Etcetera.)

_I don't know if I ever told you, but my favourite scene was the one involving the hot wax._

When Derek's message tone chimes, Stiles super-casually goes back to his chair and watches Derek check his phone, just barely trying to hide his smugness behind his Coke.

A few seconds later, Derek lets out a gusty sigh. "I hate you."

Stiles grins. "I'd be worried about my likability, but I don't really care."

" _You_ don't have to."

"Sir, if you're that worried," Kira says suddenly, out of nowhere, "why don't you write a book?"

Derek immediately pulls a face, but Stiles sits back to consider it. 

"It's worked for a lot of other people," he says, warming to the idea the more he thinks about it. "How many shady-ish celebrities have had comebacks after a great tell-all novel?"

"'Shady-ish'," Derek repeats flatly. "Such flattery."

"If you didn't want to write it yourself you could always pay someone to write it for you," Kira points out, rightfully ignoring the Stiles/Derek show. Most people do (have to), these days. "Hire a ghost writer."

Derek tilts his head. He's quiet for a while, finally seeming to consider the idea.

And then Jackson bursts back in, louder and more panicked than before. "We have a problem."

"Oh my God, what now?" Stiles cries. "You do realise we don't actually work for you, right? Like, we're affiliated, we work for the same network, but that's not—"

"Lydia started translating on air," Jackson says, verging on frantic. "She won't listen to me!"

"She _what_?" Derek yells.

"Lydia, why," Stiles groans.

"Well, she does speak five languages," Kira says sensibly, stapling something.

Stiles looks at Derek. Derek looks at Stiles.

They jump up, push past Jackson, and bolt towards the studio.

 

_April_

Sometimes, Stiles wonders if his dad composes terribly-written texts just to annoy him. Seriously, they're atrocious, probably the worst spelled messages he receives from anyone, and Stiles can't understand why. Isn't _Stiles'_ generation supposed to have the reputation for not being able to spell, for being warped by technology? Why is it that he and Scott exchange messages with perfect spelling and grammar, but he gets texts from his dad like the one from a few minutes ago:

_u and derek need 2 come up here asap, need 2 discuss ratings ok??_

Granted, it's not _the_ most incomprehensible message he's ever received from his father, sometimes there's so much text speak it takes him forever to translate it, but it's a perfect example. And it's not like it's Twitter or whatever, there's no word limit. It wouldn't kill him to write out whole words. It'd probably even be quicker, because he wouldn't have to go searching for all the special characters.

Shaking his head, Stiles shoots back a quick positive response and finishes up checking his emails. It's mostly boring CCs, but there is one from his old friend Heather, who he went to high school with back in California, and he swaps over to his phone to read it on his way to collect Derek from his office.

It's mostly a surface-level update, stuff about her husband and her kids, but towards the end there's a paragraph that turns his blood cold. It reads:

_Also, I was stalking you online the other day (as I do occasionally, as I WOULDN'T have to do if you'd just CALL ME), and on your Wiki it says you went to Devenford Prep, not Beacon Hills! Are you abandoning our mighty Cyclones for fancier pastures? After everything we went through?! I feel so betrayed :( ;)_

And, frowning, Stiles immediately exits out of his email and switches to his internet app to check for himself. He types his name into Google, taps the Wiki link, scrolls down, and yeah, right there, it lists his high school as Devenford Prep.

What the fuck?

He ducks into Derek's office on autopilot, not looking up from his phone because _how did this happen_ , and _how did he not know_? How did he, king of the Wiki spiral, not notice that his own personal Wiki article has the wrong information? And who the fuck edited his article to _insert_ the wrong information? And why? And how? Aren't any facts provided supposed to be backed up by official references? Does this mean someone has written an official article about him and said that he went to Devenford Prep and not Beacon Hills, even though he's always been vocal about his public school attendance?

It takes a few more moments, but he eventually remembers that he's supposed to be doing something else, and then he realises that it's very quiet, so he finally drags his eyes away from his phone to see—

"Shit," he swears, and immediately tries to hightail it back out of the room, but Laura Hale and Cora Hale grab one of his shoulders each and wrench him back inside.

"Hi Stiles," Laura says, not even trying to sound polite, digging her nails into his delicate flesh.

"Sup Stilinski," Cora says, her grip only slightly less tight.

"Hey," Stiles squeaks.

"So you can help us with something," Cora says, dragging him further into the room. "Derek's still thinking about hiring a ghost writer for his book, and we can't agree on who he should hire. Laura thinks Alan Deaton, this dude who used to work with our mom, and I say my friend Braeden, because she's awesome, but Derek dated her for a while, so that might be weird. Not that you'd know anything about that, right?"

Yeah. The Hales. Superheroes have evil villains as their enemies, and Stiles has the Hales. (Although some people—not him, obviously—think that there's no real difference between the two.)

Too bad Stiles refuses to get sucked into their little game. He will emerge victorious from this experience, or at least emerge mostly still in one piece.

"What about Mason?" he suggests, forcing himself to act casual, check his phone again like his life isn't in danger. "He runs Derek's blog, he seems to have found Derek's 'voice' pretty well."

" _What_?" Derek says. He sounds horrified. "I have a _blog_?"

"It's linked on the News Night website," Stiles says, thumbing back to his Wikipedia page. "Also, do you guys ever edit Wikipedia articles?"

"What's Wikipedia," Cora drawls, dropping down into a chair, spinning around on it idly.

He rolls his eyes and doesn't bother asking Laura. She hates him too much to ever do him any favours.

So, of course: "What, so you're not even gonna ask me?" she demands after a few seconds. "First you break my brother's heart and then you don't think I'm smart enough to do things on the internet?"

And then: "What the hell is this kid on?" Derek growls. "His Derek voice is so wrong, when would I ever write 'I'm ready to suffer and I'm ready to hope, it's a shot in the dark aimed right at my throat'? I'm not a fucking poet!"

Followed by: "Hey, could you guys hook me up with your wifi password?" Cora asks. "I wanna watch this video about puppies being pampered at a day spa but I'm low on data."

All of the Hales look at Stiles.

Stiles flees while he can. It's not worth battling three Hales. He'll just fill Derek in later. 

-

After the meeting with his dad, during which his dad fretted about ratings and Stiles fretted about his dad fretting, and then Stiles tried to brainstorm ideas to increase their viewership and his dad hated them all, Stiles heads to Derek's office to tell him about it.

Derek is in a meeting of his own though, with Mason and some kid that looks like he's about twelve but must be Mason's author friend, so Stiles can't talk to Mason about his Wiki _or_ to Derek about the meeting. Who's idea caused this massive inconvenience, anyway? They need to be fired, stat.

Grumbling, he figures this means he'll probably actually have to do some work, and he heads back his office only to find Laura and Cora already inside.

That's it. He gives up, for today. He doesn't even try to escape, just goes in and sits down, waiting for the inevitable.

Thankfully, neither of them like to beat around any bushes.

"You need to figure out what's going on with you and Derek," Cora says. "Either make a move or let him move on."

"Preferably move on," Laura says, eyes narrowed and arms crossed. "He could do way better than you, if you'd just let him."

"I'm not doing anything!" Stiles protests.

Laura snorts. "You're here. At his place of work. All day every day."

"He hasn't dated a single person since you came back," Cora adds. She's doing the thing where she pretends not to listen or to care, but Stiles doesn't know why she's bothering when they all know the truth. "Seriously, Stiles."

"Seriously, Stiles," Laura repeats, but it sounds much more threatening, somehow.

"I don't know what you expect me to do," Stiles says quietly, embarrassed by how vulnerable his voice sounds. He hadn't meant for that to happen. At all. "I spent so long thinking I'd fucked everything up, I don't know what to do now. What do I do now?"

Cora pats him on the arm. It's more painful than comforting but Stiles will take it anyway. "You haven't fucked _everything_ up. Just most things."

"Just… figure something out. Please. For all our sakes," Laura says firmly.

Stiles nods, turning their words over in his head, hope blooming inside him for the first time in a long time. He has a lot to make up for, but there's a _maybe_ now where there was once a _never_ , and it's enough.

"And if you _ever _hurt him like that again—"__

__"I get it," Stiles says quickly. "Steel pipe through the abdomen, teeth in the throat, painful death, etcetera."_ _

__Laura nods, satisfied that all of her explicit threats from over the years have been remembered and taken seriously. He expects them to leave then, but they don't. Instead, they just seem to settle in—Laura finds the container of his emergency chocolates and puts her feet on his desk, and Cora nudges him aside, tips him out of his chair, and takes over his computer._ _

__They'll leave soon, though. They'll get bored, and he'll get annoying, and they'll leave._ _

__-_ _

__"Really, Stiles?" Lydia asks._ _

__Stiles looks up to see her and Allison standing in his doorway, looking pityingly at him where he's working on his Macbook at the very end of his desk. Laura and Cora are taking up the rest of the space, having spread out to use his desktop computer and prop up their feet and eat their lunch, lunch which _he_ was sent to buy._ _

__It's not terrible, though. He knows this is Laura's way of punishing him for treating her brother badly, of testing him to see if he'll take the punishment. Plus, they banter a lot and they're funny, and he's only answering emails anyway, he doesn't need that big desk._ _

__His laptop always overheats though, and it's half on his lap so that's a bit uncomfortable. And right now is about the time that he's getting peckish, but his chocolates were finished off a long time ago. His back is starting to hurt, too, because he was left with the worst chair, but he's _not_ giving in. He refuses. He'll ride this out, and then maybe Laura won't kill him, and maybe if he and Derek manage to work things out then…_ _

__Anyway._ _

__"Who are you?" Cora asks rudely, eyeing Lydia up and down, probably a little too appreciatively? But who is Stiles to say anything, he is merely a lowly heartbreaker, after all._ _

__"Like you don't know," Lydia says, doing that fake-smile-and-hair-flip thing she does whenever she feels threatened. "I'm assuming you're Hales."_ _

__Cora fake-smiles back. "You know what they say about assuming."_ _

__"Sweetheart, if you say anything about asses then I won't be held accountable for my actions," Lydia says sweetly._ _

__They stare at each other challengingly, and Stiles and Allison exchange a concerned look, but then Laura says casually, "Hey, have you guys seen the video about the abandoned dog that lived under a dumpster for eleven months and then got rescued and adopted and is super adorable?"_ _

__"I love dogs," Allison says._ _

__Lydia sniffs. "If this makes me cry and my makeup starts running, there'll be hell to pay."_ _

__"If this makes you cry then I guess we'll all finally know for sure that you're not a robot," Cora snarks back._ _

__-_ _

__It doesn't take long before Stiles is so desperate that he sends Derek a text begging for help._ _

__Derek comes to his aid a torturous four minutes and thirty seven seconds later, his saviour, his knight in shining armour, and Stiles has never been so relieved._ _

__"I'm a chick magnet," Stiles says weakly, from the small section of floor he's been allocated right in the corner, furthest from his desk._ _

__"You're pathetic," Derek corrects him._ _

__"Ex _cuse_ me," Stiles says, raising his eyebrows, because when he and Derek were together he'd walked in on Laura and Cora reigning over Derek's apartment so many times he'd lost count._ _

__Derek rolls his eyes, but snaps his fingers and inclines his head, and Stiles is so grateful he doesn't even object to being treated like a pet, just slips around the four women in his office before they can do anything about it and hurries after Derek, to his only sanctuary in this mortal realm, Derek's office._ _

__Where a bald man is already sitting. Stiles knows immediately that he isn't a reporter and definitely doesn't work in TV, because no-one in the industry has ever, or will ever in all of time and space, look that calm. Which means—_ _

__"Shit, I'm interrupting an interview for your ghost writer, aren't I? I can go," he offers._ _

__"Just sit down and shut up," Derek orders, gesturing to what has become Stiles' usual chair by the window. "Don't chew on anything, don't tap on anything, don't click anything, don't bounce anything."_ _

__"Your hospitality is greatly appreciated," Stiles mutters, but drops into the chair and tries to do as Derek asks._ _

__"I'm very sorry about this, Mr Deaton," Derek says politely._ _

__"It's no problem," Deaton says smoothly. "Mr Stilinski is a big part of your life, is he not? I should probably get to know him too. If I were to be hired for this position, that is."_ _

__In a split second, Derek and Stiles freeze simultaneously in a comical tableau. Well, Stiles assumes that it's comical from the outside. To him it's mostly just painful—both emotionally and physically, because he's pretty sure he pulled something in his neck._ _

__"Uhhhh," Derek says._ _

__"Uhhhh," Stiles echoes._ _

__"...why would you do that?" Derek asks._ _

__"Yeah, why would you do that? Exactly?" Stiles squeaks._ _

__"You spent several years dating, did you not?" Deaton asks, like he doesn't understand the shitshow of emotions he's bringing up, ever so casually. "Do you plan to skip over those years entirely in your book?"_ _

__"I… hadn't thought about it," Derek says slowly._ _

__Neither had Stiles, and that's the problem._ _

__"This book is supposed to cover all of the relevant events and individuals in your life. I believe your words were 'tell-all'. Has Mr Stilinski been relevant? Has he had a profound impact on your life?"_ _

__Stiles gulps. He's too scared to look at Derek, feels his pulse pounding at his temple, feels like his stomach is twisting in and in and in on itself. He wants to hear Derek's answer but he doesn't want to either, because either way it's gonna hurt._ _

__The room is silent for a long time. Finally, Stiles hears rustling and he dares to glance up. Derek is sitting stiffly in his ergonomic monstrosity of a chair, his hands clenched into fists, scrunching up the ends of the nearest pile of papers on his desk._ _

__The silence starts to get painful. Stiles hates painful silences the most out of all the silences. He always feels like he has to just—_ _

__"Well, I'm pretty sure I taught him to do that," he says weakly, nodding over to where Derek is now methodically tearing the edge of a bit of paper in lieu of answering._ _

__Deaton looks very unimpressed. He leans forward, closer to Derek. "Mr Hale? Are you—"_ _

__Jerking up, wrenching his hands away, Derek bites out, "I'm going to… powder my… go to the…" He shakes his head. "Excuse me," he lands on, and strides out._ _

__Stiles sighs and turns to Deaton. "You don't know how to edit Wikipedia articles, do you?"_ _

__

_May_

__Stiles wakes up on the sixteenth, this new glorious day in the middle of May, this special anniversary of his and Derek's, this chance at a new start, with hope in his heart._ _

__He loses that hope almost immediately, when he becomes awake enough to register heat and realises that it is—it's _really_ hot. Like, random freak heat wave hot. It's early yet, but he can already feel the heat in the air. He tries not to despair, because yeah he hates summer, and he's not ready for it, and he was hoping to put it off for a little longer, but he works in an air conditioned building, so it'll be fine, right?_ _

__-_ _

__Wrong. Because he gets to work, and it's possible that it's hotter inside than it is out. Because the air conditioning is somehow not working._ _

__How. Why. _Why_._ _

__"Oh my god," Stiles gasps, having staggered out of the stifling elevator and collapsing over Scott's desk, wrenching his tie off. "Scott, I'm dying, Scott, why is this happening, oh my god."_ _

__"This is nothing," Scott says stubbornly, viciously jabbing at buttons on his keyboard. "Think about how bad Allison must have it. She's the one out there _risking her life_ for us."_ _

__Oh, right. Scott's sulking because Allison and Jordan got sent to California to cover the wildfires. He hadn't wanted her to go, and they'd even had a fight about it, resulting in Scott morosely picking at his pizza on Stiles' couch while Stiles tried way too hard to cheer him up. They'd made up again before she'd left, and Scott had insisted on driving her to the airport himself, but that was three days ago and he's now moved into full-on mourning._ _

__"She'll be fine, dude," Stiles assured him. It's probably true._ _

__Scott sighs, and opening his mouth and saying more things, but Stiles accidentally tunes him out completely, because that's the moment Derek appears. He's coming from the elevator banks, looking—god, looking _amazing_. He's in his element in this weather, sleeves rolled up, several shirt buttons undone, chest hair joining the party, and he looks sweaty but happy, smiling hello at Kira as she joins him and starts reading him his messages._ _

__Stiles can't take his eyes off him._ _

__God, Stiles _hates_ summer._ _

__-_ _

__As much as Stiles hates to admit it, that's pretty much how the rest of his day goes. He's trying to check their package about the fires, sitting at Allison's usual desk because it's far too hot to be stuck in his office, but he's not the only one staying in the more open areas—Derek seems to be everywhere, and he's _so distracting_ , and Stiles is just totally screwed. _ _

__"Ugh," he says, throwing himself back in his seat, sprawling out and rolling his neck. "This is impossible."_ _

__"Maybe if you stopped looking at Derek and started looking at your screen you could get something done," his dad says from behind him. Stiles turns to see him leaning against the desk behind him, looking very unimpressed._ _

__"How long have you been down here," Stiles asks suspiciously._ _

__His dad grins. "Long enough to watch you pining and sighing like a heroine in a bad romance novel." His expression turns serious. "Stiles. Son. When are you just going to… _do some work_?" His dad leans in, smacks the back of his head. It hardly hurts, but Stiles rubs it and and glares at his dad anyway for form's sake. "Come on, kid, Allison and Jordan need that package, get it done."_ _

__Stiles hates it when his dad makes sense._ _

__-_ _

The problem comes when Stiles decides to send Scott an email to try and let off some steam. He fills in the 'to' and 'subject' fields without even really looking, instead heading straight for the body of the message and frustratedly typing out his every complaint about Hot Summer Derek, stupid petty things (that sometimes kind of rhyme) like _why does he keep smiling like that, it's disgusting, his teeth are so white, who gave him the right??????_ and _of course HE loves summer, he's a bronzed beach babe, he puts the Baywatch dudes to shame, he looks amazing in anything (BUT ESPECIALLY NOTHING) NO THING SCOTT, NO. THING._ and _help I just want him to love me like he loves the sun ;____;_. 

__If anyone will understand, it's Scott._ _

__It's not until he's about to press send, though, that he realises that the autofill has messed up and actually inserted '*staff' and not 'Scott' in the 'To' field, and shit, thank god he caught that, that would be so embarr—_ _

__His finger slips. He accidentally presses send._ _

__He's frozen for a few panicky seconds, before the horrified adrenaline kicks in and he literally jumps up, onto Allison's desk, waves his arms around like a crazy person to attract everyone's attention, and yells, "No one read the email I just sent out! It was meant to be a private message for Scott and I sent it out in a mass email to everyone by accident! If you do read it, you will be fired immediately!"_ _

__"He can't fire you," his dad corrects him loudly._ _

__"But I have connections with people who can! And I can make your life very, very miserable!" And it's possible that he's going a little off kilter now, crazed by the embarrassment of it all, but he continues, "You know I can, I've done it before! I have skills, I have abilities, I have—"_ _

__And then, like a dramatic accompaniment to his crisis, the lights go off._ _

__Everything is silent._ _

__"Well, at least no one else can check their email," his dad's voice floats out in the dark._ _

__Which is when all of the phones in the room start beeping with email alerts._ _

__"Oh," his dad says weakly._ _

__"Thanks dad," Stiles says hollowly._ _

__-_ _

__Stiles has abandoned all attempts to keep cool in favour of hiding in his office, on the floor behind his desk, when the electricity comes back on._ _

__Great. Now everyone will have a perfect view of his humiliation._ _

__Someone pushes into his office, obviously to get a close up of Sad, Shameful Stiles, but he hides his face in his hands and yells, "Nope, no one comes in here, I'm in hiding, get out."_ _

__"Sorry, but you'll have to emerge from your dungeon of shame, we have a problem," Lydia's voice says._ _

__Stiles pries one eye open and tilts his head back, seeing her head poking over the edge of his desk. "What are you doing here? Aren't you still supposed to be on probation?"_ _

__"Yes, well, maybe if I wasn't _voluntarily taking a break_ ," she pointedly corrects him, "we wouldn't have had this problem. Or it wouldn't have been as much of a problem as it is now."_ _

__"Please, stop saying problem!" he pleads, and then pauses. "What problem?"_ _

__"Jordan can't appear on camera."_ _

__"What?"_ _

__"He got burned."_ _

__Stiles jumps up, mind buzzing, already thinking about what to do next, about Allison, and Scott, and oh shit, how did this _happen_? "What? How? They're not even supposed to be anywhere near the actual fire, what the hell—"_ _

__"He burned his tongue on pizza," Lydia continues nonchalantly, and Stiles immediately deflates. Oh, she's good. She could have lead with that, but she knew exactly what was going to get Stiles up and spurred into action. If he hadn't been the victim of it, he'd be admiring her genius right now. "He can't talk. He's expected to make full recovery but can't present any news in his condition." There's a pause as she flips her hair and looks scathingly at him. "I told you you should have sent me. I don't eat pizza."_ _

__She flounces out, back into the newsroom, stopping to talk to Derek about something. Stiles cringes, but forces himself to keep watching, and a few moments later, Derek looks in his direction and raises his eyebrows expectantly._ _

__Stiles takes a deep, sharp breath. The show must go on._ _

__-_ _

__Allison does the broadcast instead. Lydia talks her through it, and she's actually really endearing in front of the camera—a bit nervous and unsure at first, but as she gains confidence she's the perfect mixture of candid and empathetic._ _

__Scott is super proud. He keeps pointing at the satellite feed and saying, "That's my girlfriend!", in case anyone hadn't realised._ _

__Stiles ignores everyone and everything that isn't the job for as long as possible, but there's a headache both pounding in his temples and grinding into the back of his head, and he's exhausted both emotionally and physically, and all he wants to do is go home._ _

__So, he does. When the broadcast is mostly over, and all they have left are a few bits and pieces and the sign off, Stiles hands his headset to Scott and he leaves._ _

__-_ _

__His apartment is still hot, but Stiles has the feeling that even if it wasn't it would make no difference. His brain just won't turn off, no matter what he tries. Since he got home four hours ago, he's showered once, tried to sleep twice, considered eating like ten times, and started watching five different things on Netflix, but he nothing appeals and he just can't settle._ _

__It was supposed to have been a good day. He'd been so hopeful in the morning. He wonders if he has anything left to be hopeful for anymore, Derek-wise. If the email (because Derek definitely read it, and probably sent it to his sisters, he'd never be able to resist) ruined that last tiny chance Stiles thought he might have._ _

__Maybe he should give up. Maybe he _should_ move on, let Derek move on too. Maybe it's the right thing to do._ _

__He's ranging around his apartment with his baseball bat, pretending it's a lightsaber, when his doorbell rings. Past midnight, on a weekday, and his doorbell is ringing. Scott, maybe? After he'd finished Skype-sexing Allison he decided to come check on his best friend?_ _

__Stiles swings the bat onto his shoulder and ambles to the front door, checking the peep hole with his hand on the lock._ _

__At first he thinks he's hallucinating, because the person at the door looks a lot like…_ _

__He unlocks the door and wrenches it open._ _

__So, not hallucinating then. That is definitely Derek standing in his doorway, holding a bottle of…_ _

__"Milk," Stiles says. He points to it with his free hand._ _

__Derek nods. "I knew you wouldn't have any." He holds it out, and Stiles takes it dumbly. It's still really cold. Derek must have bought it nearby. "And I know you get insomnia on bad days, and I know you like to have a warm glass of milk when you do."_ _

__Stiles… can't believe Derek remembers all of that. Shit. "You know a lot of things," he says dumbly._ _

__Derek snorts. "Well, I know how to send an email to the right recipient," he says, and Stiles flinches._ _

__He'd hoped Derek wouldn't be cruel about this, no matter how much Stiles probably deserves it._ _

__"Stiles," Derek says, but it's gentle enough that Stiles looks back up at him. His eyes are sparkling in the light drifting out of Stiles' apartment, and they're soft, not angry. "It's okay."_ _

__Stiles considers him. "Is it?"_ _

__"Yes," Derek says firmly. "I promise." He reaches out and taps the milk. "Use the microwave. I don't think you should be near an open flame right now."_ _

__"Laugh it up, fuzzball," Stiles snaps, and Derek grins. He shoves his hands in his pockets and gives Stiles one last half-smile before turning and walking back towards the end of the hall. "Hey," Stiles calls after him, and Derek shifts back to face him. "Do you know what today is?"_ _

__"National Sea Monkey Day," Derek says immediately, and then he smiles for real. "I know what today is, Stiles. Get some sleep."_ _

__Stiles watches him go, clutching the milk close to his chest._ _

__

_June_

__"I'm just calling to let you know that kid, I love you, I love you a lot, but even I wouldn't go this far to help you out. I promise, I was just gonna call you and say I got a flat or something."_ _

__Stiles stops, squints at the caller ID, and then slaps his phone back to his ear. "...Dad?"_ _

__"Yes, _son_ , it is the contributor of one half of your DNA, talking to you from a great distance away via a cellular phone, you all caught up now?"_ _

__"Not really!" Stiles says, his voice lifting at the end into somewhat of a (very manly) shriek. He glances furtively around the restaurant but everyone's ignoring him, even Derek, who's sitting opposite him fiddling with his own phone. Rude. Stiles takes a breath. "Dad, explain. Now."_ _

__It takes his dad another ten minutes to work his way through the story. Ten minutes during which: all of the people who had previously been paying him no attention most certainly begin to; Derek flirts with their waitress (in Spanish, naturally) when she starts getting uppity about the fact that they're taking up a table but haven't ordered anything yet; Stiles has to physically create a barrier with his hands between the table and his forehead so that he's not tempted to start getting them more intimately acquainted; and Stiles' dad is both wonderful and a dick simultaneously, a skill he mastered years ago but likes to remind Stiles of at the most inopportune of times._ _

__When Stiles finally hangs up he drops his phone on the table and immediately reaches for his beer and skulls half the bottle, even though he doesn't really like the taste of beer and usually sips it to cover for it._ _

__"Ughhhhhhh," he groans, slamming the bottle down and rubbing his temples. At least the condensation has left a cool sheen on his fingers. It feels nice on his face._ _

__"What," 'asks' Derek, in that special way of his that framed supposed-to-be-questions as demands._ _

__Stiles levers himself out of his slump. "Okay, so, disappointing or aggravating news first?" he asks, but before Derek can open his mouth, continues, "You know what, they're pretty interchangeable, so I'm just gonna tell you straight—this is a setup, and Mason was arrested. Although I've been reliably informed that there's no correlation between the two."_ _

__Derek blinks. "Explain."_ _

"Mason was pursuing the Planned Parenthood story, argued with some pro-lifers, got caught up in a protest, got arrested. My _dad_ was pursuing the Stiles/Derek story, forgot he wasn't Cupid, got caught up in bailing Mason out, basically was always planning on skipping what was supposed to be _his_ Father's Day dinner and leaving us here awkward and alone anyway." He watches Derek's face, not sure what to expect, but Derek is seriously working his patented Blank Face of Ill Communication. The slight tilt of his eyebrows could range in meaning from supreme distaste to raging ecstasy. Stiles decides to do what he always does in these situations—push straight on through. "So, yeah, basically I am one hundred percent innocent in this, it's got nothing to do with me, so don't kill me. This was all my dad. Which is just— you know what, it's unacceptable, I'm calling him back right now and I'm yelling. Very loud." He snags his phone off the table and starts to get up, to take this fight outside, to seriously just yell at his dad, ask him _what he was thinking_. Now Stiles and Derek are stuck here, and it was weird enough that Derek came along anyway, although apparently he and Stiles' dad have celebrated Father's Day together every year since Derek's been in New York and Stiles has been in other states, but it's sti— 

But before he can take another step, his phone lights up with a message. And it's… from Derek. Stiles looks up, puzzled to see Derek with his phone out, expectant eyebrows raised. 

Stiles cautiously unlocks his phone and opens the text. 

_I didn't ask your dad to do this either_ , it says, and Stiles' heart sinks just a little, before he gets a follow up message. _But I'm glad he did._

__He looks up at Derek from across the table. His face is glowing bronze in the candlelight, soft and warm, and it's the prettiest thing Stiles has ever seen. He swallows, and can barely look away from Derek for long enough to respond._ _

_Me too_ , he sends back. _I missed you_. 

__Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Derek smile._ _

__-_ _

**Author's Note:**

> Some dialogue used in the gun control discussion is lifted directly from interviews found documented [here](microdot.tumblr.com/tagged/gun-control).
> 
> This is the second time I've used [Dylan's old Halloween costume](http://36.media.tumblr.com/52afcafd53c983f245ce299918a615c3/tumblr_mvcy1fSy9v1qixosbo4_500.jpg) for Stiles. I'm obviously never getting over it.


End file.
